The Dragonborn Comes
by Steak and a Spud
Summary: After visiting Imperial city with his father, a Great War veteran, all Alaric can think about is getting home. However, when he is wrongly arrested, he finds himself bound for the chopping block. Fortunately for him, the gods spare him, but at a price. Now, Alaric must fight against all the odds as he goes on a quest to save the whole of Nirn...
1. Bound for the Block

**A/N: I don't know how this is going to go, as this is my first story I've written for… anything. Any fellow authors with CONSTRUCTIVE criticism are welcome to make suggestions to me in the reviews. If any of you get lost or confused about something, I have a story that gives an organized description of the majority of the changes I've made. Well… here we go.**

The bounce of the wagon over the rough cobblestone brought Alaric back to life. As he looked around him, he saw he was still surrounded by Stormcloaks, and still under arrest for some law he didn't know he had broken. _Crossing the border without a license they said, if they would've let me reach over two feet I could have showed them a perfectly valid. Hopefully Pa gets through "legally". _

He had been returning from his family's pilgrimage to the Imperial City. They made the journey every ten years for his father to meet with his fellow Great War veterans. This time his father had been awarded for his act of valor trying to take back the city. His father had been wounded in the first push, but had carried wounded men back and forth, all in the heat of battle and under crippling fire. _In the elves defense, nothing's ever seemed able of throwing my father off. _

He had returned ahead of them, to get there house cleaned and make sure they returned to a home just like they left it. He had not been stopped on the way in, which he found odd. He had made it to Darkwater Crossing, and had camped outside the mill for the night. When he awoke the next day, he had an Imperial sword pressed against his neck with an angry Captain shouting for him to get up.

That was three days ago. Now he was on a cart headed west, towards Helgen, or at least that's what the guards had said. He had never been to Helgen, mostly because it wasn't a very significant town, with a population of only about 100 people. Hopefully, when they arrived at their destination, he could find the Legionnaire in charge and work out this whole mess. _Not likely, these Imperials don't seem very happy. _

"Hey, you! You're finally awake!" He looked up to see a grinning Stormcloak with blond hair and a beard in its infancy. "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush; same as us and that thief over there."

Alaric looked behind him to see a man in thick fur clothing and chainmail, and a man in a rough-spun tunic, who he assumed was the thief.

"Damn Stormcloaks, things were fine till you showed up. Empire was nice and lazy. I could have been halfway to Hammerfell by now." The thief then looked over towards Alaric; "you and me, we shouldn't be here, it's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

The guard, who obviously had nothing better to do, shouted a quick "Shut up back there!" to the prisoners. There was a momentary silence, broken by the thief casually asking "What's wrong with him", referring to the gagged prisoner opposite him.

"Watch your mouth, your speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, true High King of Skyrim!" The thief's face went pale at the name.

"Ulfric? Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion!" It was Alaric's turn to speak, and he seemed to shock the others when he did it.

The thief, looking ready to soil himself, quickly followed up the statement with a question. "Oh gods! If they captured you, where are they taking _us_?"

The blonde Nord, speaking on behalf of his gagged Jarl, responded "I don't know, but Sovengarde waits." The simple statement sent the thief over the edge, and he went into full panic mode. "Oh gods no! This can't be happening; this isn't happening!"

The first Nord spoke again, "Hey horse thief, what village you from?"

"What? Why?" The thief hastily puffed out.

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home." The blonde one said as he went off into a trance, as if remembering something from the past.

"Rorikstead, I… I'm from Rorikstead" the thief weakly replied.

In the distance, an Imperial voice informed the commander, a General Tullius, that the heads man was ready. The General hastily acknowledged the man, and then quickly moved on to something more important.

As the carts entered Helgen, the thief began rambling different prayers to all the gods. The town was decent; with at least twenty houses, all of them with front porches lined with spectators of the unusually large army convey moving through their little town. The blonde started rambling on about how such and such made mead with juniper berries mixed in. _I'd kill for mead right now, _Alaric commented to himself. He hadn't had anything to eat _or_ drink for that matter, for three days. He had eaten lightly the night before he was arrested, expecting to cook himself a hefty breakfast. They entered what Alaric judged to be the town center. It was dull, with a couple of houses and a square of brick in front of a tower draped with an Imperial banner. As the carts stopped, the Imperials intensions became quite too clear to Alaric. _Talos! They're executing all of us!_ He had been under the impression that Ulfric was to be executed, while the rest would be taken prisoner.

They were lined up next to their cart, and as the Legionnaire began reading off a list of all the prisoners. "Ulfric, Jarl of Windhelm." The Jarl immediately went toward the chopping block, as if on cue Seems_ someone has done this before_. "Ralof of Riverwood." At this name, the blonde went to join his Jarl at the chopping block. Next came "Lokir of Rorikstead", at this, the thief sprung forward, making a run for freedom. He was shot down in three seconds flat.

"Wait, you, come hear." Alaric realized the man was talking to him, went forward, hopeful he could plead his case to someone sensible. "Who are you?"

Alaric answered him, "Alaric, son of Rodir, and innocent of all crimes. I am not a Stormcloak, and I was arrested before I had a chance to show my passport to your comrade."

The Nord looked stunned at all this information, and simply looked to his superior, a short Imperial with a red face and an angry expression. "Captain, what should we do? He's not on the list."

The Captain looked Alaric over once and dryly replied, "He goes to the chopping block." And that was that, Alaric, loyal son of the Empire, was bound to the chopping block. He was stunned, so much so that all he could do was accept his fate.

As the Priest of Arkay started with her prayer to the god of death, Alaric started his own to his family's patron god, Kynareth. _Goddess of the winds, sweep my soul to Sovengarde_ _and watch over your loyal followers, my kin._ With that, Alaric was ready for the block, ready to face his unjust death….


	2. Out of the Pot & Into the Frying Pan

**A/N: So instead of going to sleep last night, I stayed up reading some of the more popular stories. While I'm not going to **copy** their stories, it helped put my mind on the right track. Oh! Something I didn't mention in the introduction story was that Skyrim is about .75% bigger. I was planning on making it double the size or something, but after having to walk from Ivarstead to Riverwood without a horse, I withdrew that notion. So to give you an idea, a walk from Riverwood to Whiterun now takes about four hours. So here we go, finishing Helgen…**

The priestess never got to finish her little last rights ceremony, as a loud, red-haired Nord interrupted her with an impatient "Let's get this over already." The Nord voluntarily walked up to the chopping block, and was quickly positioned by the Imperial Captain, who all too willingly obliged.

The Nord looked up at the executioner, readying his axe, and defiantly declared "My ancestors are smiling at me Imperials, can you say the same?" The axe-man either never heard him or didn't care, because before anyone could respond, the Nord's head was in a basket, and his neck was a fountain of blood. The death was met with mixed pro-Imperial or pro-Stormcloak responses, with the first having the majority.

The Captain then pointed her fingers at Alaric, with a gruff "Next!" Alaric went forward with a lump in his throat. As he got up to the block, the Nord with the list from earlier gave him a pitiful look, almost as if he would save Alaric if he could. The Captain positioned him on the block, the earlier occupant's warm blood covering Alaric's neck. _I never even got to drink my first beer._ It was an odd final thought, but he didn't care.

As it turned out, that was not to be his last thought. As the executioner raised his axe to deliver the blow, a deafening growl which seemed to shake the ground was heard. All Alaric could see was the executioner, but he noticed the sky get dark very quick. Then, he saw it. It landed on top of the central tower, overlooking the execution and roared ferociously. It was black as night with dark red eyes that could pierce through your souls. It was a dragon; a real, breathing dragon.

It unleashed one more roar, which seemed to shake everything, even the tower. The executioner was caught off-balance, and quickly fell. All Alaric could remember was running for shelter as fast as his tired and sore legs would carry him. He finally arrived in one of the towers, filled with Stormcloaks. The men Alaric now knew as Ralof and Ulfric Stormcloak were discussing their next move, but Alaric didn't hear a word of it. His vision was blurry, and his ears were ringing painfully. What he did hear, was Ralof telling him to move on his mark. When Ralof did, he opened the door and all the towers occupants ran as fast as they could, with the healthy assisting the wounded. There were about 20 of them, but by the time they had reached the main keep, there were only 12. Alaric was the last one in, as he was carrying a soldier with a huge gash in her side from fallen debris.

The room they entered was circular with a three doors and a table that had been knocked over. In this room were a few more Stormcloaks, bringing their total up to thirty. The Jarl quickly took charge, and next thing Alaric knew, he was holding an axe and following a group of rebels. _Father would not be happy right now _he noted with a slight grin. Ahead of them, was a torture room, where they ran into the torturer and his assistant, both of whom were disposed of with the loss of one of a Stormcloak. Moving on a little farther, they came to a hole in the wall which led to a cave system underneath Helgen. Following that, they came to a large cavern, which Ulfric deemed a good spot to rest. They were not able to rest long, however, as they heard Imperials coming towards them. Ulfric took the wounded, 5 in all with 5 men to carry them, and left the other 19 to deal with the Imperial dogs. Alaric was deemed one of the carriers, and carried the lass from earlier.

They made it out of the cave, with the noise of battle hot on their trail. Ralof announced that his home town of Riverwood, only a few miles away, would gladly assist the "true High King and the sons of Skyrim". So the long trek began as the sun started to retreat towards the western horizon. The group reached Riverwood as dusk settled in, and Ralof quickly arranged to turn the nearby inn, the Sleeping Giant, into a first aid hospital. The innkeeper, a Breton, had the tables clear and wash basins ready.

Riverwood's citizens quickly came to help with the wounded, and the treatment lasted all night. Alaric, who couldn't stand the sights and smells, retreated to one of the inn rooms. When the commotion settled down, he got up to get a bit of food, which was being generously donated by the locals. He was finishing off a piece of bread when Ralof came up to him.

"Can you believe that thing was a dragon? Just like the stories from when we were kids!"

Alaric said his first word since that morning, and was somehow surprised by the sound of his own voice. "I honestly don't know what to believe anymore. So much death, so much destruction."

Ralof's face took on a somber tone "Aye that is true. But cheer up! We're alive, and now we can mourn the dead and celebrate their lives. Bartender! Mead for me and my friend!"

The bartender quickly slid two nice cold meads toward the two Nords. Ralof drank his with an almost mad desperation, and then quickly called for another. Meanwhile, Alaric simply played with his cup, paying no heed to the alcohol.

"What's the matter friend, afraid of a little mead?" Ralof jokingly asked as he finished off his second one.

"No, it's just that I've never had alcohol, I was always too young."

Ralof's face twisted into a sad and distant look, and in a low voice he simply responded, "I guess today's a day of all new things."

**A/N: So I think I'm getting better at developing this storyline, though I think I need to do some work with the dialogue. So now that were out of Helgen, we can finally start mixing up the storyline, and trust me, I have big plans. Next chapter is going to be a slow one, as I'm going to have Alaric stay in Riverwood for a day; so get ready for a flashback or two.**


	3. The Journey Begins

**A/N: Happy Easter! Well, it's Easter as I type this. So I think I'm switching over to the POV style of story. I think I can get more bang for my buck that way. Well, that's all I really have to say. Let's pick up where we left up, shall we?**

Alaric

_Alaric was surrounded by sheer white… something. He didn't know where he was, but a voice in his head told him to go forward. So he did, and he suddenly found himself in a field full of flowers, surrounded on all sides by a thick evergreen forest. Behind him he heard a stream running, and walked over to it, taking a long drink. As he turned back around, he was suddenly confronted with an image of his parents._

"_Ma? Pa?" He reached a hand out towards them, seeing if they were real._

_Suddenly, his mother screamed at the top of her lungs, and his father's face became full of fear._

_Alaric heard a vicious roar behind him, but before he could turn to face the noise, his father tightly grabbed both of his shoulders._

"_Beware the World-Eater, his flame destroys all!" Before Alaric could respond, something knocked him to the side, and he was horrified to see his two parents suddenly enveloped in a wall of flame. He heard a voice from behind him, deep and flowing, but with a purely evil growl in it. _

"_Did you think you could stop me? I am Alduin! Destroyer of Worlds! "And with that, he himself was enveloped in a wall of flame._

He awoke with a start, quickly checking his surroundings. He was soaking with sweat and his throat was dry, as if he had been choking on smoke. Alaric noticed that he was in one of the rooms of the inn he had arrived at last night, the Sleeping Giant Inn. Getting up and heading over to the wash basin, he scooped up the cold and refreshing water, which he took several large gulps of. Looking to his right, he saw a fresh set of clothes lying on a chair. He got dressed in the simple white tunic with black trousers, and made his way to the main hall of the inn. He found it deserted with everything back to normal, as if the wounded Stormcloaks had never been there. From the corner of Alaric's eye, he saw a woman come out from the shadows, the innkeeper, he remembered.

Recovering quickly from the surprise, he turned fully to face her. She was a Breton, mid-fifties with blond hair tied in a not reaching down her upper back.

"Where'd everyone else go?" He asked her, trying to make the situation less awkward for him.

She lightly grinned and nodded her head at the door. "They all left earlier this morning, they decided to move the wounded to Stormcloak-friendly territory. Then her face changed to an expression of deep concern and looked back at Alaric. "Listen, I need to ask you a favor…"

"Alaric" he corrected her, "Alaric Strong-Heart."

She nodded her head in thanks, and proceeded to continue. "Well, Alaric Strong-Heart, if that dragon that attacked you is on the loose, then someone needs to tell the Jarl. Riverwood is defenseless."

Alaric took on an anxious look, and looked down rubbing the back of his neck. "The Jarl? I've never met royalty, are you sure you want to send me?"

"Yes, I want to send you." Delphine answered assertively. "You've survived a dragon attack, so I'm sure you can handle a couple of royal lumber-heads. Listen, as an early thanks for doing this, I've had Alvor, the blacksmith, make you some armor and a weapon. You never know what you'll find on the roads these days."

Alaric swallowed a lump in his throat and nodded his head. "Okay, you've got a man, I'll do it."

Delphine grinned happily and went over to the counter. "Good, now here's some food and water for the road, it's not much but it'll do." She went through the cabinet and came out with a small bag full of food. She handed this and a water skin to Alaric, who thanked her for the supplies.

Alaric went outside, and noticed the sun had just come up, _good, I haven't slept in._ He made his way over to the blacksmith shop, where he found a big muscular Nord working the forge. The Nord had short blond hair and a medium sized beard.

"Alvor?" Alaric asked as he approached the man. The Nord, who was busy working the forge, gave an affirming grunt, and continued to work. Alaric came closer to the forge. "Delphine sent me, said you had some armor for me." Alvor stopped working, and looked up at Alaric with a large grin.

"Aye that I do." He started over to the table and began to rummage collect several things as he continued to speak. "I know it's not much, but it should get you to Whiterun in one piece." He handed Alvor an iron helmet, leather bracers, leather boots, and hide armor reinforced with leather strips, iron studs, and animal fur.

Alaric looked at all the armor and stared up at Alvor like a boy who had received his first sword. "Thank you, Alvor. This is beautiful!"

Alvor just laughed and silently mumbled something about the boy should see Skyforge. Alaric got dressed in the armor, and pulled out the axe he had grabbed at Helgen. Alvor smiled and sarcastically commented "You look like a Companion with that armor." Alaric smiled and laughed with him, and said his good-byes as he started down the road.

The journey took Alaric over a gradual ridge, and when he reached the top, he had his first view of Whiterun. The city was massive, with three different tiers and a huge palace on the top one. Alaric continued on, and soon came across the numerous farms outside the city. The journey took about four hours, and as Alaric passed the first gate he remembered how hungry he was. _I'll just eat once after I deliver the message._

As he approached the main gate, he was stopped by a guard in chainmail armor with a gold sir-coat, the standard guard uniform of Whiterun. "Stop! Cities closed with all the dragons about, official business only."

The frightened Alaric responded shakily. "I have news about those dragons, actually."

The guard was wearing a full helm, but Alaric could imagine the guard's eyes widening. "Alright, but we're watching you, stranger." With that, the guard nodded to his comrade, who opened the gates to Whiterun.

The city was massive, with ancient houses and innumerable houses. As Alaric headed up the first flight of steps, he came across four Nords arguing. The first one, an older man with scruffy grey hair, had his hands on his sword hilt, and was yelling at two of the other Nords.

"Now you listen here, Greymane. We didn't do anything with your son. He died a traitor's death, and that's that!" With that, he and another Nord, blond and in Imperial armor, turned and walked past Alaric, murmuring under his breath all the curses one could think of. Alaric approached the two Greymane's and casually pointed his thumb back in the direction of the previous Nords.

"What was that all about?"

The older Greymane, an old man with long grey hair and caramel skin, replied. "Those Battleborns? Oh, they're just filthy rats. They kidnapped my nephew and keep telling us he died in battle." The second Greymane, a white haired man with a scruffy beard and dressed in a sleeveless tunic, nodded his head. "Aye, they have my son. And I'll be damned before they get to keep him."

With that, the two men walked past Alaric and went down the staircase he had just used. Alaric continued on to the palace at the top of the hill, awestruck by the size of the city and its buildings. As he left the residential district and entered what appeared to be a common area centered on a dead tree, he was overwhelmed by a crowd of people going about their everyday lives. Off in the crowd somewhere, a man was shouting something, and Alaric headed that way. The man stood in front of a statue of Talos, and was fervently preaching to anyone who could hear him. When the man saw Alaric, he ran over to the lad and grabbed him in a tight grip.

With wide eyes the man spoke to Alaric. "You, I've seen you in a dream! You are the chosen one!" Alaric warily took the man's hands off his shoulders, and retreated back into the crowd blocking out the man's pleas to stay. Alaric finally found himself in front of the palace, and began to climb the long flight of stairs. As he reached the top, a guard greeted him with a generic "Greetings to Dragonsreach, traveler."

Alaric stood in front of the huge palace doors, and, catching his breath, pushed open the doors and went to meet the Jarl.


	4. Things look Bleak

**A/N: It looks like I'm going to get two chapters out today, Easter. So this is the first change in POV, and I quite like how it came out. So without further ado, the Dragonborn Comes.**

Jarl Stormcloak

The Jarl of Windhelm paced up and down his war-room. The war was not going well for him or his men, a second Imperial Legion had arrived in Skyrim. His Housecarl, Galmar Stone-Fist, was rambling on about how they could find the Jagged Crown.

"If you give me fifty, no, twenty men, I can get the crown." The Stone-Fist was eager as a dog to please his master, but Ulfric did not play along.

"You want me to pull men from the front to chase fairytales? No my friend, I will take the throne with steel, not head ornaments" Ulfric was getting tired of this game, every other day Galmar would ask for men, it was beginning to become annoying.

"My Jarl, the crown would only further your righteous cause-"

"Galmar," the Jarl replied, "enough. I'm not sending men on a goose chase; I am sending men to win a war, understood?"

The old warrior's shoulders shrank a little, "Yes, my Jarl." And with that, he left.

Ulfric looked at the map carefully. The two sides had been in a stalemate for weeks, and nobody seemed able to make a breakthrough. Suddenly, an idea hit the Jarl. Examining the map, he noted that control of Helgen was neutral, due to the dragon attack. The settlement would push deep into Falkreath territory, and if need be, serve as a launching point for an invasion of Whiterun. Ulfric scratched his beard, contemplating the move. It would be flawless if he could station a garrison, but the problem was getting there. There were four ways to get to Helgen, only one of them was controlled by his men. It was a pass running underneath the Throat of the World, but it was narrow and snowy. It didn't help that winter was setting in either. Jarl Stormcloak closed his eyes, and came to his decision.

"Jorlief!" He called out.

"Yes my Jarl"

"Send the Rift Division to Helgen."

Alaric Strong-Heart

Alaric tightened the cloak and its hood around him as the wind and snow picked up. He wondered how in the world anyone had talked him into this. Here he was, climbing this gods-forsaken mountain to a gods-forsaken barrow to get some gods-forsaken stone; all because Jarl Balgruuf asked him to do it.

Bleak Falls Barrow, it seemed, had been built around a massive execution of Dragon Priests. _Lots of dead priests mean lots of Dragur. _He cringed with the thought of that word. As he continued on, he finally reached the main entrance, but heard voices coming from the external structure. He had never been in a real fight, and wasn't sure if he could handle these bandits. He had picked up some tips from Ralof before he had left Riverwood for the Barrow, but even then he only knew the basics. He pulled out a bow he had found at an abandoned tower on the road to the barrow, but it was hard to see in this storm.

He approached the Barrow, scanning for any targets. He saw a bandit on his own near the edge of the barrow entrance, and took careful aim at him. Alaric strung the bow and carefully aimed until he was sure of hitting the bandit. He let fly his arrow, and to his shock, it struck the man in the chest. The shooter was lost for words at his luck; _I couldn't do that again if I tried._ He was going to need to, though, as two bandits went after their comrade's killer. Alaric drew his sword and grabbed his shield from his back, and charged forward to meet the bandits head on. The first one he clashed with was a Redguard woman, who was wielding an iron club and a hide shield. The opponents rammed their shields into each other, with Alaric coming out on top. He knocked the woman back in confusion, and used the opening in her defense to put a sword through her gut.

As she slumped over dead, Alaric turned to meet his next attacker, who was about to swing his battle-axe at Alaric's head. Alaric quickly raised his shield to meet the attack, and was knocked down with a dented shield and a sore arm. The bandit began bashing at Alaric's shield, which was still protecting him, trying to get to the target below. As he rose to deliver another blow, Alaric rolled to his right and quickly got on his feet. The bandit, who had put too much power in his swing to correct himself, was decapitated by Alaric's sword.

Alaric took one look at all the gore around him and vomited, right there in the snow. After he had composed himself, he finally opened the doors of the barrow and went in to retrieve the Dragonstone.


	5. The Fire spreads

**A/N: April's Fools day! Have any good prank stories? I don't. Anyway, the story: we're going to leave our beloved young Nord for a while, get some of the other characters introduced. By the way, if are reading these, please put a review! I would like to know what you think of the story and any suggestions you have. Well, here we go**

Legate Gaius

As Legate Gaius watched his legion marching through the Pale Pass, he reflected the current situation. General Tullius' cries for aid had finally been answered, and just in time, it seemed. The Stormcloak contingent in the Rift had vanished, and Tullius suspected they were using the pass from Ivarstead to Helgen. Gaius' men had covered a remarkable amount of ground, forty miles in two days. Unfortunately, the supply wagons hadn't been so fast, and the men were being forced to wait at Helgen for their winter supplies to catch up.

Gaius watched as an eagle circled overhead, a good omen if he'd ever seen one. He was approached by a messenger, a short and fat old man, wheezing as he saluted the Legate.

"Legate, the vanguard have entered Helgen and report no sign of recent activity." The Legate nodded his head in quick thanks, and bid the messenger off.

_Good, we beat them to the pass, now we hold this end. Watch out Ulfric, you're walking strait into a dragon's teeth, and they're eager to chew you up._

Orlog

The orc sat and watched as two of his younger siblings bickered over a piece of venison. _Silly fools, they'll have to fight for more than food in the real world. Not like they'll ever know, though. _Orlog was a traveling orc, going from town to town and doing whatever mercenary work needed to be done. He was home visiting his tribe for his brother's initiation into manhood. It was a huge ceremony, and every member of the tribe was supposed to attend.

When his one of his sisters finally won the prize, he smiled and went outside for a breath of air. The sky was clear, and it was a beautiful day, and that was saying a lot for the orc. As he walked off toward the forge to watch his kinsmen at work he noticed the sky had gradually grown darker. _Strange, must be a storm blowing in from the south. _He suddenly heard a voice in his head that told him to get away from the storm, but he quickly shook it off.

Then he heard… _it._ He couldn't put a word on the sound; it was like a roar but amplified by one hundred. Orlog's eyes widened in fear as he turned to see what had made the noise. _Is that a dragon? No, it can't be; that's impossible. _He quickly started to run for the armory as the "impossibility" shot out a bright and furious flame from its mouth. It slammed into the main hall, where most of his kin were preparing for the ceremony. _No!_ The orc now turned around and sprinted towards the main hall, which had light up like a magician's hand. _If I don't save my kin, then no one will be alive to stop this beast._

Orlog reached the hall, and could already smell burning flesh. He rammed through the door, and quickly picked up two of his younger siblings who had been playing near the door. As he put them down outside the door, he noticed the dragon had circled back, and was now destroying everything in sight. Turning toward his younger kin, Orlog pointed at the hill next to the hall.

"Get inside the mine and tell the others to stay there." With that, his frightened siblings quickly dashed up the hill, and made it inside the mine. Turning back towards the main hall, the Orc continued his work.

He was able to save his mother, aunt, two nephews, five more siblings, and two visiting Orcs. As he turned back to search for his father, the hall finally collapsed on itself, taking his father with it. The Orc didn't have time to process this though, and quickly joined his kin in the mine.

Twenty two had been killed by the time the dragon left satisfied. To most people, 22 out of 149 people wasn't bad; but to Orlog, those were 22 kinsmen. His father being dead, and his younger siblings too young, Orlog was by default the chieftain of the clan. The ceremony was quickly preformed by his aunt, the medicine woman. Orlog declared as his first act as chief that his younger brother join him in manhood.

With a look of great sorrow on her face, Orlog's mother turned to face him. "Uruk didn't make it."

The Orc simply sat down and did what no Orc should ever do… he cried.

**A/N: So next chapter we return to Alaric and I introduce a few more characters. Hope you guys are enjoying this, because I sure as heck am. Please remember to review, I'd love to hear your opinions on this. **


	6. An Odd Messanger

**A/N: Sorry for the extended break. I had writer's block for a few days… then I got a new game, which *ahem* distracted me, and by the time I remembered this I had completely forgotten where I was going with this story. Now I'm good, so let's do this.**

Matilda

The wind blew hard against Matilda's face as she continued up the mountain. She had been sent by her father to retrieve a family heirloom, part of her initiation into womanhood was to bring honor to the clan name. That had been three weeks ago, but she had finally reached the mountain in which her prize awaited. _This had better be one heck of a heirloom._

As she neared the top of the mountain, she saw in front of her a barrow leading into the mountain. _Great, Draugr and bandits._ As she climbed the long steps, she saw that the "bandits" were now just masses of body on the cold ground. _Looks like someone volunteered to do the dirty work for me. _She continued inside, to be met with a large entrance chamber, filled with more dead bandits.

…

She finally entered the main burial chamber, a huge cavern with a platform and curved wall against the cave wall. As she approached, she noticed her ancestor's tomb was unsealed, and the former occupant sprawled out on the ground. _Which means…. By the Nine! Who took my Dragon Claw?_

Alaric Strong-Heart

It had been at least thirteen hours since he had seen sunlight. As he finally came out of Bleaks Fall Barrow, Alaric sat down on a nearby log to rest for a while. The surrounding wood was coated in a thick layer of mist, courtesy of Lake Illantia. Alaric took his helm off and placed it next to him, and reached into his knapsack to find some food. _I don't think I've eaten at all today._

As Alaric was finishing his bread, he suddenly felt terrified. It was as if a… presence was nearby, bound for good or evil he could not determine. Suddenly, the fog bank in front of him lit up in a bright flash, and the outline of a figure could barely be seen. Alaric jumped up and quickly drew his sword, which had been well used that day. As Alaric stood there ready to defend, an old and wise voice came through the fog.

"Peace be with you my child." Alaric was shocked at how the man's words could be so powerful yet so gentle.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"I simply wish to speak with you, Alaric Strong-Heart." Alaric's heart was racing now, terrified at how much this man knew. His body told him to run, but his mind told him to stay and see what would happen.

"Then come forward, so that we may speak."

The voice emerged from the fog. He was an old man, with long white hair and an even longer beard, reaching down to his mid-chest. He was dressed in tattered priest robes, and carried a walking stick with a symbol on top Alaric did not recognize.

"The gods are with you, Alaric."

"How do you know that, and how do you know who I am for that matter?"

"You learn many things when you are my age… but I suppose I should further explain. I used to be like you, Alaric, travelling these very lands swinging my sword for a bag of coin. Ah those were the days, drinking till I could drink no more. And not to mention the women, hah! But that was a long time ago, now I spread the word of the gods, and these past few weeks I have been overwhelmed by messages to you. So I sought you out, and here you are."

"So what is this message that causes an old warrior to travel these dangerous lands?"

"The message? Oh yes, the message! It is this: the gods have great things instore for you, young warrior. But be warned, you will emerge from this war a changed man…"

Before Alaric could question the meaning, a flash of light blinded him. When he opened his eyes, the old man was gone.

_Very strange. What war? The rebellion? Is there to be another Great War? What did this man speak of?_

Alaric heard more movement to his right, and turned to see a young blonde Nord woman approaching him, weapon drawn and an angry expression. He readied his sword, not sure what else this night's shadows would throw his way. The woman pointed the tip of her sword at him, and removed her iron horned helm.

"You! Where's my golden claw?"

**A/N: Pulled off that old man scene better than I thought. Welp, this'll probably be my only publication till the end of May, when school gets over.**


	7. A Night of Questions

**A/N: Sorry it took me so long to get out another chapter. I bought the game Mount and Blade, and that took up about two months of my life. This might be a bit on the sloppy side because I haven't written for so long.**

Alaric Strong-Heart

The woman approached with her sword still pointing at Alaric. She was blonde, with dirt covered face and an average build. Alaric thought she must be around twenty, and she had a certain blueblood look to her.

"I said, where's the claw?" Now her arm was wavering, and Alaric realized she didn't mean to use her sword. In one sweeping motion he drew his sword and swung near her handle, causing her to flinch and drop the sword. Her eyes took on a fearful look, and she froze where she stood. Alaric took the advantage to question the stranger.

"First things first. Who are you; why are you here, and why do you want this claw." He said the last part while pulling out the Golden Claw he had found on a dead bandit. When she did not answer, Alaric advanced and positioned his sword in front of her neck, in case she made a movement forward.

"P-p-please, I don't want any trouble, I just want that claw. I-"

"Wait, you didn't want any trouble and you approached me with sword drawn?"

"Well, I thought you might be a bandit, a-a-a-and so I was just being cautious."

Alaric was not sure whether to kill her now, or see why she wanted the claw, which would fetch a nice price at market, and probably cover the cost of building his own farm next to his ma and pa's. Which reminded him, he had to get home and see if they were alright, what with all the soldiers and bandits and now dragons running about.

"Alright, I believe you, now tell me why I should give you this" he said while brandishing the golden claw.

"Well, I come from an old clan, and a tradition of ours is to find an artifact and bring it back for our rite of passage. I learned about the Golden Claw a couple of months ago, and I've been searching for it ever since."

Alaric knew he should let her have the claw, but at the same time…

"Come with me back to Whiterun, and will get this sorted out over a nice meal and a mug or two." Alaric knew it sounded like a trap, but right now he just wanted to get back to the Bannered Mare and take a nice long bath. After that, hopefully, he could go home finally and leave this crazy life behind him.

The girl eyed him warily, but finally stuck her hand out when he lowered his sword. "Matilda." Alaric returned the handshake, his sword now in its sheathe. "Alaric, Alaric Strong-Heart."


	8. A Jarl Impressed

**A/N: I know the story hasn't moved much in the past couple of chapters, so I'm going to skip ahead a bit. Also, the next few chapters are going to be all Alaric, but after those we'll catch up with our other characters, and introduce a few more.**

Alaric Strong-Heart

When Alaric and Matilda arrived at Whiterun, the guards were about to open the gates for the day. After explaining they had business with the Jarl (and Matilda using some feminine charm) they finally got in. Whiterun was silent, the only noise coming from the Bannered Mare.

Alaric stopped in front of the inn and pointed at the door. "Wait in there; I'll be back in an hour or so."

"You better not dupe me; I have powerful family who'll hunt you down." Matilda had had a sour expression on her face since they had agreed to their "truce".

"I wouldn't dream of it." Alaric's sarcasm only mad her face even more twisted, and with that he turned towards Dragonsreach. He soon found himself underneath the Gildergleam, and took his first actual look at the city. In the daytime when the streets were crowded, you could never really see the city. _The city is beautiful at night. I should save up some coin and buy a nice little place here, take night strolls like this all the time._ Alaric suddenly remembered why he was there, and continued on up the steps to Dragonsreach.

After talking his way past another set of guards, he finally entered the palace. It was mostly a wooden structure, with a tall roof supported by countless wooden arches and beams. The main entryway had chairs and tables for those waiting to be called up the short flight of steps to the throne room. The throne room had a large fire in the middle, surrounded on three sides by long tables, now cleaned off from supper. The throne was up yet another short flight of stairs, with a stool to the left of the throne for the city steward. The room itself led to four different rooms: the cellar, the kitchen, the war room which led to the royal quarters, and finally, a short hall that led to the magician quarters, where the Advisor of Magicka and his apprentices lived. Alaric headed towards the last hall, and finally came into the Hall of Magic, where the Farengar Secret-Fire, the Advisor of Magicka, was bent over a book completely oblivious to the rest of the world.

"Farengar?" Alaric, like most Nords, was wary around magicians, and so hung by the door to the room. Farengar jumped up in surprise, but when he saw it was only Alaric, the creases of being up all night showed on his face and blood-shot eyes. He straightened up, and looked Alaric up and down.

"You look like you lost a fight with a cave bear." In the short time Alaric had known Farengar; he had realized the wizard was very blunt. He had also learned the wizard had no since of humor, and was a poor speaking companion. With that in mind, Alaric cut right to the chase.

"You can't even imagine. Anyway, I went to Bleak Falls Barrow…" at the mention of the barrow, the old wizard's eyes lit up with anticipation, "and I found your bloody stone." He pulled the stone out of his pack, and slid across the table to the side burned wizard, whose face was in complete and total shock at what was before him. With his hands shaking, the wizard picked up the stone and looked up at Alaric, a tear forming in his eye.

"I've been searching for this stone since I was a student in Winterhold… and you found it! It actually existed! I- I mean we must inform the Jarl immediately!" With that the old wizard (in his best attempt of a run) hobbled for the Jarl's quarter, motioning for Alaric to stay.

_I hope I'm that spry when I'm an old man._ Alaric quietly chuckled at the thought, and then started laughing softly at the thought of his father running like that. His father didn't do much of anything now a day. _The war really destroyed his mind and body. Maybe that's why my mother never let me play soldier with all the other children._ Alaric was snapped back to reality by the sound of someone stomping down the stairs, and in between the steps, incomprehensible swearing…

Jarl Balgruuf the Greater

The Jarl had been sleeping peacefully with his wife when young guard, who was terrified to wake the Jarl, had told him that Farengar urgently requested his presence. Balgruuf didn't know Farengar to be easily excitable, and so he decided to see what the old fool wanted this early in the morning. As he entered the Hall of Magicka, he saw Farengar, who for all his grey hairs, was bubbling with excitement. Standing in the corner of the room, looking out a window, was the boy he had sent out on Farengar's errand a couple of days ago.

The boy had changed noticeably since Balgruuf had last seen him; for one, his dark brown hair was even darker from dirt and grime, and it had grown longer and unkempt. The boy was also starting to grow stubble of a beard, the sign of a true warrior in Nord society. Mages, farmers, and the rest were allowed to grow patches or mustaches or even things like Farengar's side burns (which Balgruuf thought looked like two skeevers on the wizards face) but never a full beard. The boy finally turned, and seeing the Jarl, quickly fell to one knee, his face red with embarrassment.

"At ease…" the Jarl had never taken the time to learn the boy's name.

"Alaric, my Jarl. Alaric of clan Strong-Heart." The boy stayed on his knee with his head down, the proper protocol for a peasant addressing royalty.

"Well then, Alaric, you may rise."

"Thank you, my Jarl."

Balgruuf now turned his attention towards the still bubbly wizard. "So Farengar, what's so important you have to wake me up at this time of day?"

"Well, my Jarl, this…" the wizard pulled out a large stone, with what looked like runes on them.

"Farengar, if I had wanted to see a rock I would have looked off the porch." The wizard's face turned into an annoyed expression.

"No, my Jarl, this is not a ROCK. This is the Dragonstone, the same ROCK that will help us kill the dragons that are burning the land. "

The Jarl quickly looked over at the boy, Alaric. _He, of all people, went in there and got that? These are strange days indeed._ "Well then, that changes things. Wake up your mages and start deciphering. I need your report by yesterday. GO!" With that, the wizard dashed off deeper into the quarters, and began waking up his mages.

Balgruuf turned towards Alaric, who looked very weary and ready to sleep standing in the corner. "Good job getting the Dragonstone. I'm impressed. I've sent soldiers, mercenaries, and everything in between to get that stone… none of them returned."

Alaric looked surprised by that last statement. _I would too if I impressed a Jarl._

"But I'm sure you just want to get to the Bannered Mare, hm? Well come back tomorrow afternoon, and we'll have a feast for a hero and get you your payment."

Alaric meekly looked at the Jarl, almost afraid to say whatever was on his mind. "My Jarl, may I ask how much my payment will be?"

Balgruuf chuckled at the boy's nervousness; he'd been asked that question a million times. "Yes, yes, I'm sure you'll be happy to know that your payment will be fifteen thousand septims."

Alaric's jaw dropped, and he suddenly looked like he was about to pass out.

"I-I-I… if my Jarl would excuse me, I need to rent a room at the Bannered Mare." With that, he bowed and made his way towards the door, his head bent in the Jarl's direction the entire time, once again common protocol.

_I like that boy; I'll have to see to it that I give a position in my court. After all, his father did save my life…_

**A/N: Roses are red; violets are blue; I like reviews; especially from you.**


	9. Of Inns and War

Matilda

Matilda sat in the Bannered Mare with a cold mug in her hand, which had done nothing to elevate her mood. In fact, ever since she had entered the inn, everything had actually made her angrier. First the bard had tried to flirt with her; he now had a black eye and a busted lip. Then the waitress, a Redguard, had been very hostile to Matilda, as if she expected everyone was out to kill her. Finally an old shield maiden had been boasting that she could take Matilda in a fight.

Alaric came in as the sun rose in the east. He had an almost comical expression on his face, one of shock and utter lack of words. He bought a bottle of mead from the innkeeper, and joined Matilda in at the corner table.

"So, how'd it go with the Jarl? Took you long enough to give him a stone." Alaric laughed a little when she said "stone". "What's so funny; and where's my claw?"

Alaric started chuckling even harder, and took a drink from his mug to quiet him. "Well, that 'stone' was the Dragonstone, which the Jarl will use to deal with the dragon threat."

_That's impossible. How'd a farm boy like him go in there and get the Dragonstone? Last time I checked, that thing was guarded by Gunnar the Wicked._

"Well then, ahem, how much coin did you make?" Alaric lowered his head so it was closer.

"Fifteen thousand septims and a feast in Dragonsreach."

Matilda almost spit out her drink when she heard it. _Fifteen thousand septims! That's more than my pa makes in a month! _"Well I never thought a milk-drinker like you would ever get past a crypt of Dragur, but I can see your no milk drinker." She pointed to his mug for emphasis.

"Well thanks… I think… anyway, before I pass out, here's your claw. By the way, what clan makes you go crypt diving for a rite of passage?" Matilda smirked a little, grabbed the claw, and stood up. As she made her way to the door, she looked behind her, where Alaric was sitting there realizing what she was doing. She wanted to leave him like that, but she decided to be nice to him, considering he gave away a huge chunk of gold for free.

"Clan Shatter-Shield." She walked out into the market district of Whiterun, and hurried to the gates before the crowds amassed. Once outside she got up on her horse, and rode east.

Legate Gaius

The Stormcloaks had kept up a steady assault for nearly a week. They were slowly but surely battering their way through the Southern Pass. His men had taken a beating, and Tullius' reinforcements were still three days march away. _Let's hope we can hold that long. These boys aren't used to mountain warfare, and all that training means nothing here. There are no formations in mountain warfare, no discipline, no first or second cohort. Its man on man and the Nords are killing all of my men._

Gaius had made his headquarters in what was once Helgen's central keep. It was cold, and exposed, and had a bad history but it provided a perfect view of the pass. He was on the top of the tower, observing a column of infantry coming in from the west. Not seeing any banners, and afraid he had been flanked, the Legate had sent a company to hold the west gate. A messenger came up the flight of stairs, the wind turning his face a raw pink.

"Soldier, report." Gaius had learned that the less you say to a messenger, the easier the laundry detachment's job was.

"Sir, Jarl Siddiger sends his compliments. He has dispatched Thane Hammer-Fist and a detachment of 500 men to help secure the pass."

"Give thane Hammer-Fist and the Jarl my compliments." _Five hundred men! Since when has Siddiger cared about helping others, or had a tactical mind for that matter. Then again, I'm sure he doesn't want to have to lead his men. Leave it to someone else. Still, 500 men is a lot, and when the 3__rd__ Legion gets here…_

"Sir! The Stormcloaks are making another push!"

"Thank you Lieutenant, let us see if we can stop this attack ourselves. Men, with me! Send a message to the Hold detachment telling them to make all due haste. Valerian, take the left. Marco, take the right. I'll take the center. Let's go!" With that the Legate was jogging down the stairs, followed by his staff. He hadn't been in battle since the first day, and his blood was pumping at the thought of fighting of the Stormcloaks.

…

Gaius' main force rallied at a crossroads a mile east of Helgen. The rest of his force was moving through the surrounding rocks, skirmishing with any enemies they met. When he saw his men were in formation, and his flanks secured, he turned to his men.

"Men, it is fateful that we fight from this crossroad. THIS IS A CROSSROAD IN HISTORY! THIS WILL BE THE BATTLE THAT BREAKS ULFRIC'S BACK; THIS WILL BE THE BATTLE THAT WILL RESTORE SKYRIM!" Gaius always knew how to get his men going, no matter how bleak the situation. He donned his full helm, and drew his sword from its scabbard. With his sword glittering in the sunlight, he gave the order to advance, and the die was cast.

After a half mile, they encountered the lead units of the enemies own main force. While the arrows bounced off the men's shields, Gaius knew there would be archers to his flanks.

"MEN! FORM THE TURTLE!" With that, his men close formation; the men on the front and sides made a shield wall facing out, while men in the middle and rear raised their shields to cover their heads. The volleys increased as they moved on, and soon they were closing with the enemy. When they reached a distance of at least 50 feet, he gave the order to charge. The men kept their shield in the same positions, but opened formation and rushed forward, led by Legate Gaius.

He slammed into a last minute shield wall, which was quickly broken through. He entered into combat with a young Nord wielding a battle-axe too big for him. Gaius dodged the boy's swing and quickly put a hole in his chest. Moving on, he found himself face to face with an officer, distinguished by his lieutenant scarf. Gaius, running off of adrenaline, charged the man, who quickly reacted by bashing his shield into Gaius, who went flying to the ground. The officer then swung his axe at Gaius' head, which dogged it and kicked the man in both knees. This threw the man off balance, and allowed Gaius to get back up on his feet.

They parried each other's attacks several times, before the Legate used an old trick he had learned from campaigns in Hammerfell. Gaius used the edge of his shield to grab the edge of the officer's, and ripped it from his chest. Using the officer's surprise and vulnerability, Gaius swung up, and put a cut in the man's face, sending him to the ground yelling. Looking around him, the Legate saw that the Stormcloaks were wavering. He continued to lead his men through the slug fest, and when the Hold force crested the rise, the Stormcloaks broke and retreated. The 5th Legion raised a tremendous roar, and wiping blood from his busted lip, Gaius looked at the retreating Stormcloaks and smiled.


	10. Feasting like a Jarl

**A/N: Well, were almost to two benchmarks. The first is 500 views, which is a lot more than I ever frankly thought I'd get. Second is 10,000 words; this doesn't mean much to you readers, but to me it's a reminder that there's a long road ahead. The road goes ever onward, I guess. So this'll be an interesting if not tedious chapter, a lot of future chapters are affected by what happens in this one.**

Frodnar

The heir to Whiterun hold woke up in an excited mood. Father was to hold a feast tonight, for some hero or warrior or something like that. _Father would throw a banquet for a dog._ As Frodnar made his way to the Royal dining room, he was stopped by his uncle, Hrothgar. Hrothgar was 34, a year younger that his brother, Balgruuf.

"Look at you, a grown man! I never thought I'd see the day." _He's been drinking again; he knows I became a man years ago. _It was true, Frodnar had turned 20 two years ago, and his younger brother Nelkir was only 16. _Speaking of which, where is Nelkir? _Slipping past his uncle, Frodnar went to find his brother. He wasn't in his bedroom, or the dining hall. _That only leaves one place._

Frodnar went into the cellar room, and found a blonde headed boy sitting in front of a door, murmuring something to himself.

"Nelkir?" Nelkir jumped at the sound of Frodnar's voice, and turned around with an irritated look on his face.

"Yes? What do you want brother?" he spat out venomously.

"The family is ready to start breakfast. Mother wanted me to find you."

"Oh, okay, sorry. I'll be up in a minute." Nelkir turned back towards the door, but Frodnar wasn't done talking.

"Why are you so obsessed with this door? There's nothing behind it, is there?"

Without breaking eye contact with the door, Nelkir responded vaguely. "I don't know… that's why I'm interested by it." With that, he stood up and looked at his older brother. "Come on, we don't want Dagny eating all the rolls again, do we?"

Happy that his brother was to his old self, Frodnar chuckled. "No, in fact, let's make sure she doesn't get any." With that, the brothers were racing up the stairs and through the main hall past a very surprised and angry Proventus.

Alaric Strong-Heart

As night fell, Alaric made his way up to Dragonsreach. The palace was gleaming with lights, and the outer entrance was crowded with well to do merchants, nobles, and other important people in the hold. Alaric was amazed by what he saw as he entered, the dull wooden structure was covered in banners and lights, and the entire hall was crowded with people. As he stood marveling the sight, an old woman in an old dress approached.

"Greetings, sir. May I take your cloak?" Alaric looked at her and saw there was no emotion in the woman's face. _She's probably done this so many times she doesn't even think about it._

"Um yes, thank you." With that the lady did a slight curtsey, and left. He continued to force his way through the mass of people, and finally made his way to the throne. He found the Jarl in his throne flanked by his family on both sides. The Jarl was speaking to a Redguard, but stopped the man mid-sentence.

"Sorry Murad, we'll have to speak later. Look who it is! The slayer of Draugr, he who found the Dragonstone; tonight my friend, we feast in your name!" Alaric simply smiled and grabbed a mug from a passing server. He could tell the Jarl was slightly tipsy, which was odd that someone would let a Jarl get drunk.

"My Jarl, I thank you for…" he swept his hand across the room for emphasis, "…for all this. My father will never believe the Jarl had a feast for his son." Balgruuf laughed at the last part, and stood up next to Alaric.

"Let me introduce you to my family." As the Jarl introduced his family, Alaric looked at who he was speaking of. His wife, Gerdur, was a beautiful woman with long brown hair and high cheek bones. His brother, Hrothgar, was a massive Nord with a bald head and a thick beard. His eldest son, Frodnar, was a brown haired young man, with a patch of hair on his chin. Then there was his youngest son, a blonde headed youth named Nelkir. Finally, Alaric saw Balgruuf's daughter, Dagny. She was a beautiful young woman, around Alaric's age, with dark brown hair that went down to her shoulders. Alaric was captivated by her, but he didn't have long to admire.

"And so that's my family. Now, go feast and drink until you puke!" With that, Alaric was pushed towards the nearest buffet table, which had the best food Alaric had ever tasted. _I should help Jarl's more often; this was worth all those Draugr and bandits. _ Alaric spent the rest of the night in between stuffing his face, drinking his fill, and having small talk with everyone who wasn't appalled that he was a commoner. At several points he told young children or giggling ladies in waiting his tale of heroics, bravery, and sheer luck. Of course he left out all the not so brave parts, like how he tripped down a flight of old stairs, or soiled himself when ole Gunnar popped out of his crypt.

When the party finally died down to those that wanted free mead or those that were passed out, Alaric went to go receive his payment. He found the Jarl drunker than the first time they talked, and after convincing Balgruuf he wasn't his ugly aunt, he collected his coin and went out the front door.

The air was crisp, and the moon was at its highest. He decided to take a nap in his room at the Bannered Mare, and then finally go home.


	11. Homecoming of Sorts

**A/N: Did you guys know they had a Total War section on this website? I may have to start a story on that. Anyway, this is a short and somewhat depressing chapter. **

Alaric Strong-Heart

It had been four days since he had left Whiterun. Four days of walking along the hot dusty roads that came to Whiterun Hold in the summer seasons. Four days of being on his own, thinking of nothing but seeing his family again. He had it all figured out, at least, he think he did.

First I'll go home to ma and pa, he thought to himself. Then I'll buy my own farm somewhere, then I'll find me a nice wife, have some kids, and if worse comes to worse, then I'll have some experience to defend them. Of course, first I'll have to get home. He looked up at the sun, which was beating down on him from above. He had already past several brushfires, which were a daily burden growing up in the summer months.

Alaric continued on for several more miles, before stopping at a nearby stream to refill his waterskin. The one good thing about living on the Central plains growing up was the fact that the mountains provided a constant supply of clean water. Filling his water skin and taking a minute to wipe all the dust and grime from his face, Alaric took a minute to look at his map and get his bearings. He had passed Gjuakr's Monument several hours ago, meaning he was almost home.

Finally reaching familiar ground, Alaric looked in front of him and saw the prospering town of Rorikstead. He had spent many a cold winter day's listening to the countless stories his father and the other veterans had. He turned right off the main road, and continued on down a dirt path. As he approached the farm, he noticed a billow of black smoke rise in the distance. Running towards the smoke, he noted the fact that the crops were beginning to be choked by weeds. He was wondering why his father of all people would allow weeds to grow in his field.

And then he saw it. The billow of smoke was coming from what was once the farmhouse, barn, chicken coop, and slaughterhouse. The ground immediately around the complex was completely scorched. Then he saw them. In front of the farmhouse were two charred piles that looked like human remains. No, he thought, there's no way that's them. As he approached the bodies, he saw a bright object on the finger of the larger figure. He picked up what was once a ring, now slightly melted and discolored. He looked at the symbol on the front of the ring, it was the Imperial Dragon. The same ring my father wore, he thought.

Alaric was at a loss for words, and his mind was completely numb in that moment. Then suddenly, a vision flashed into his mind. It was the black dragon from his dream all those weeks ago, the same dragon that had appeared after his parents had disappeared in a storm of…

"NO!" He fell to his knees and started to weep. Images of his parents from over the years flashed through his mind. What was it that damned dragon had said? "Did you think you could stop me? I am Alduin! The Destroyer of Worlds!"

After several hours of going in between numb pain and pure agony, Alaric finally settled himself down enough and steeled his nerves. You can mourn later; he said aloud, right now you need to be strong. With dusk finally approaching, he dug two graves and took two stones from the foundation of the farmhouse. He carved on the first one:

_Jorgen Strong-Heart_

_Imperial Legionnaire_

_3__rd__ Legion_

_145 4E-201 4E_

On the second tombstone:

_Elina Cloth-Weaver_

_150 4E-201 4E_

Finishing this, Alaric set up camp for the night. But as he lay down, he swore to all Nine of the Divines that he would not rest until every dragon was dead… or he was.


	12. Clan Shatter-Shield

**A/N: Is it sad that the storyline has moved farther in the past two chapters than the whole story combined? Na… It's all good. Anyway, while Alaric fumes for a little bit, let's see what the rest of the gang is up to. **

Matilda 

Matilda entered the city just as the guards were closing the gates for the night. She made her way through the now deserted streets, tossing a coin or two for the beggars. After all, she thought, I used to be in their same position. She made her way past the inn, and then stopped in the temple for a quick prayer. The priests were all asleep, so she quietly made her way to the altar, paid her respects, and headed out again.

To her front she could see a large stone mansion, with a guard at the gate. After telling the guard who she was, she made her way to the backyard. Slipping out the back gate, she found herself in a small private cemetery. Heading for the mausoleum in the middle, she inserted her dagger in a small hole, twisted, and stood back. The sarcophagus slowly slid back into the wall, and underneath it was a small staircase and a door. Pulling the chain next to the door, she entered the door as the sarcophagus creaked back into place.

She entered a dark hallway, and made her way through it, almost navigating from memory. Finally, she came into a brightly lit room, a cistern, with beds lining the walls, a desk on the opposite side of the room, a large locked door, and a central island with a large round table and chairs. It's good to be home, she thought.

A large Breton with dirty brown hair and a rugged beard walked up with a smile on his face. "What's up boss? Last I heard you were on a 'special' mission. And by the looks of it, you've been enjoying dress up too much." Matilda and the Breton chuckled at that. Well, she thought, I do like my fair share of clothes.

"Good to see you Rune. Yes I was on a mission and no, I was not having fun with disguises. Where's Brynjolf? I need to see him ASAP." Rune tilted nodded his head to the desk in the back of the room.

"He's back there going crazy over paperwork again. I swear he should really get someone else to do that for him, he's not very good at desk jobs."

"Well you know how Brynjolf gets about asking people for help. Alright thanks. Oh! I almost forgot," she said as she pulled a scrap of paper from her bandolier, "this is a list of all the ships that sunk around the time you were born. I know it's not much, but I think it's a good start." Rune's eyes grew in a combination of excitement and awe. He took the paper slowly, as if at any minute it would bite.

"T-t-thanks boss. I don't know how I'll make it up to you." Matilda could see tears forming in the corner of his eyes, and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

"Oh trust me; I'll come up with something." She made her way across the room after being greeted by everyone and having to answer a million questions. Brynjolf was hunched over the table, scribbling something like a madman. He moved the paper aside and started writing on another paper just as fast. Matilda couldn't help but chuckle a little at the huge Breton doing all this work.

"You wanted to see me, Brynjolf?" He shot up and stared at her, confused for a minute but then something sparked in his eyes and he shook his head.

"Er yes lassie. Wanted you to see this." Brynjolf opened one of the drawers and started shuffling through paper until he finally found what he was looking for. "This came from that ole bugger down in the Ratway, said to give this to whoever was in charge." Matilda took the note, written with a quick yet precise hand, it read:

_To the Guilmaster,_

_Dragons have returned to Skyrim, nowhere is safe. I know this doesn't really concern you, but you have important friends, unlike me. Warn them! Your business is about to slow down quite a bit, so start stockpiling. Also, if you hear any rumors about a Dragonborn or Dovahkiin, tell me immediately. Thank you for listening to an old man, and –please heed my words._

_Signed, Esbern_

Matlida had to reread the letter a few times. "Dragonborn? Like the Septims? Didn't they all die 200 years ago? I know dragons are returning, but Dragonborn? Seems a bit nutty."

Brynjolf just shrugged a little and sat back down to continue working. "I don't know nothing about any dragon business, but one things for sure; the old man seemed genuinely concerned with it, and he doesn't sound crazy enough to be down in the Ratway in the first place." With that he started scribbling notes on more pieces of paper.

Matilda turned to leave for the Ragged Flagon, but stopped after a few steps. "Brynjolf, send a copy of that letter to all our 'associates'. And for Mara's sake, get somebody to do all that for you; you have horrible penmanship, I can hardly ever read what your writing."

He just chuckled a did a mock salute. "Aye, lassie. I'll get both of those done." Satisfied with that, she turned to head for the Flagon, a mug of mead already calling her name.

**A/N: Wanted to see how long I could get before I ruined the surprise.. guess it wasn't long. I'm not going to be able to post a chapter in the next few weeks, because I am busy as can be. Anyway, leave a review, PLEASE. Aaaand have a good week.**


	13. Out with the New, In with the Old

**A/N: Okay, what do I have to do to make you guys review? I'm fine with only two favorites and one follow, but two reviews is just bad. I know for a fact it doesn't take more than 2 minutes to write a review saying what you think. It doesn't even have to be long… just write a review.**

Legate Gaius

The Stormcloaks had completely shattered in the past few days. After winning control of the southern pass, Legate Gaius had pushed ahead, making it Ivarstead where he met only token resistance. They had stopped there advance north at Ivarstead, and ended their advance east when they met fierce resistance at Treva's Watch. All in all, it was a smashing victory.

The Legate took all this in as he stood on the ridge opposite Treva's Watch. It would be tough marching from here. No matter which direction we march, he said to himself, we'll have enemies in our rear. He reasoned knocking Riften out of the war, as the roads north were narrow and winded down to the Eastmarch Cauldron; perfect ambush territory. However the march to get to Riften would be rough. The ground was marshy, the roads uneven, and there were many rivers and fortresses that Ulfric and Jarl Lalia Law-Giver could use to their advantage.

The 500 man Falkreath detachment had been ordered home, since Falkreath was now safe. That left him with about 3,000 men. I lost too many men trying to take the pass, he said to himself. He turned around and headed towards the Imperial camp, just at the base of the ridge. His men were all together; thankfully, he thought, Ivarstead offered to guard itself, freeing his men from the Northern roads.

Gaius entered his tent and sat down at his desk. He pulled out his writing equipment, and began to write a letter to General Tullius. He was asking for more support, and mentioned several times (for emphasis) the advantage of the position he now held. Just a few more men, and he could bring the rebellion to its knees.

Three weeks later

The Legate was furious. No, furious wasn't a strong enough word. He had been in a perfect position, PERFECT, and then he had received this damned note. General Tullius stated in the letter that Gaius' position was "dangerous" and "exposed". We have a river and a lake protecting our front and left, and a entire bloody mountain range anchoring his right. But no, he had been ordered to withdraw, and a good dog... he meant Legate… followed orders. His men were already lining on the Helgen-Riften Road, the same road they had fought so hard for. They were to withdraw to the eastern end of South Pass, and wait there for further orders. I hope Ulfric enjoys his luck, Gaius thought bitterly, because next time I won't stop even for the bloody Emperor himself. He mounted his horse, and turned west… towards the setting sun; towards incompetent senior commanders; into retreat.

Aeric Storm-Blade

Aeric was ashamed of his men. He had been in Windhelm for four days to receive orders from the true High King, Ulfric Storm- Cloak. On day two, he had heard that Gonnar Oath-Giver had cowardly retreated from the Imperial dogs. But now everything would change. Ulfric had Given Aeric control of all Stormcloak/Hold operations in the Rift, all in all, 7,000 men. His scouts reported that the Imperial's only had 3,000 men on a wide front running from Ivarstead to Treva's Ford (in front of Treva's Watch). Gonnar would be his subordinate, but Aeric planned to change that. If I question his honor and accuse him of cowardice, which would leave the boy with only two options, death or exile.

His plan was simple, take 1,000 men and attack south towards Ivarstead. 500 men would sail in longboats down the Treva River, and hook up with the garrison at Treva's Watch. 4,000 men would make a frontal attack running from the ruins of Angarvunde to the Treva River. The remaining 1,500 men would act as a reserve, in case the Imperials made a breach anywhere else.

The plan would work, it HAD to work. He was approaching the Stormcloak camp at the base of the Rift Watchtower. His men were all in position before he got there, and the longboats had set off from the Riften Docks. He didn't know the commander on the other side, but he felt a hollow sympathy for the poor man. If I were you, I'd find cover; a storm of steel is coming right at you…

**A/N: Really glad I finished reading ****The Killer Angels**, **that really helped me learn how to write a chapter from a person's point of view. Anyway, I'm going to be occupied for the next 3 weeks, so this'll be my last chapter for a while. Remember to review and, if you would be so kind, favorite or follow. Well, have a good Fourth of July, or whatever other holidays there are in late-June, early-July.**


	14. Freaking Monday

**A/N: It's been a long week, but I managed to cram this in. I'll be gone for another week so don't expect anything before mid-July. HEY, WE REACHED A THOUSAND VIEWS! Now all we need is some reviews. I'm going to edit some of the earlier chapters, there's a huge drop off after chapter 3, and it continues to decline until chapter 11, where it picks up again for some random reason.**

Alaric Strong-Heart

Alaric took another sip of his mead as he surveyed the room from his corner booth. He had been staying in the Rorikstead Inn for the past three days, waiting for news of any nearby dragons. The thought was suicidal, but he was determined to kill the dragon that had burned his parents and home. The crazy thing, he thought, was that I've already made plans for when I kill it.

It was a simple plan really; he would kill the dragon, take the reward money, combine it with his previous payment, rebuild the farm, and spend the rest of his life in peace. I've seen enough death to last me a lifetime. A sudden flash in his vision, and he repeated the dream with the black dragon in it. He had given up on blocking it out a few days ago, and now it just came and went as it pleased.

Alaric lost himself in his mind, but was quickly brought back by the Inn door bursting open. A man in common clothes covered with soot stood at the door panting and looking terrified. Before anyone could react, the man (and the entire doorway was washed in flame. It burst in and spread throughout the wooden and straw building, burning tables and patrons alike. Alaric quickly rose and covered himself with his cloak. He dashed through the fire, and once outside tossed the burning cloak to the side. Drawing his sword, he looked around him to find absolute confusion.

Civilians were running around like headless chickens, almost the entire town of Rorikstead was on fire, and the guards were either incinerated or shooting at the dragon to no avail. He ran to the nearest grouping of guards, ducking when the dragon made another run, burning what was left of the inn and its inhabitants. The guard in charge of the group (noted by his soot covered scarlet scarf) was directing fire at the dragon, and when he saw Alaric he wore an agitated face.

"What in the Nine do you want? Can't you see I'm busy?" The guard snarled every word as he kept his eyes on the dragon. Alaric had a moment where every bad scenario played through his head, but finally asked the craziest thing anyone had ever heard.

"I want to help, kill the dragon I mean." The guards bitter face turned into shock and confusion, before he started laughing (in the middle of a burning town with hundreds dead, might I remind you).

"Sure, you go kill that thing; I'll even give you some of my men, too! Hey boys, this lad wants to kill that dragon!" The rest of the guard stopped and stared at Alaric, their soot covered faces revealing no emotion. Alaric shouted for them to follow him, and he charged towards the dragon… the same lad who was terrified of bandits.

They reached the top of a hill next to the town, and were greeted by the dragon landing in front of them. Alaric's instinct told him to dive out of the way, and just in time. The dragon sent scorching heat from its mouth into five of the guards, burning them alive. Alaric got back up and charged the dragon with the remaining guard, and they began to slash furiously at the dragon. The dragon roared as the Lieutenant stabbed his blade into its right wing. So it swung its wing, hurling the Lieutenant back. The rest of the guards were furiously swinging at its legs and belly, those doing the latter where quickly crushed by the dragon lying down. The ones attacking the legs were stepped on or grabbed by the dragon's teeth and devoured.

Meanwhile, Alaric had barely escaped both the burning and the crushing, and was continuing to slash at the dragon's side. Suddenly, Alaric realized he was the only one left standing, and the dragon slowly turned to face him. It opened its mouth and cocked its head back. Alaric stood there in awe of the beast before him, rivaling Dragonsreach in size. Oh sh-, Alaric dove again as the dragon blasted out more fire.

Alaric knew if he didn't think of something soon, he would be a cooked meal. So Alaric did the dumbest thing anyone in that situation could do… he charged the dragon. The dragon seemed caught off guard, and before it knew what was happening, this tiny human was on top of its head. Alaric was now on top of the dragon, and slashing furiously at it. Suddenly, Alaric was almost shaken off the dragon, and one look down answered what had happened. The dragon had taken off, with our hero on top of it.

Alaric continued to hack at the dragon, but the tough scales took the blows. Alaric knew he was going to die… and then he saw it. On top of the dragons head was a small depression, where there was only scale and brain. Mustering his shattered nerves and little strength, he lifted the sword with both hands, and drove it through the dragon's brain. The dragon roared in pain, and before Alaric knew what was happening, they were on a nose-dive towards the ground. Alaric braced for impact.

BAM! They hit the ground and skidded along it for several hundred yards. Then the dragon slammed into a tree, hurling Alaric off its head. Alaric felt very dizzy, and rose. He was burned, cut, bruised, and covered in the smell of soot and burnt flesh. He looked at the dragon, whose yellow eyes had closed, and whose black blood was dripping from the multiple wounds. Alaric had had enough, when the dragon began to glow. An aurora of multi-colored lights danced around the dragon, and then the same phenomenon started circling around Alaric. Suddenly, the dragon burst into flames, its scales and flesh evaporating into the air. The light on both of them died, and the dragon was now a mere skeleton (which is still quite terrifying). Alaric suddenly developed a massive headache, and plopped down leaning on what was left of the tree. Words that had no meaning began to shuffle in his head, he began to have memories of flying through the air, of other dragons, and a deep voice rumbled some cryptic language into his ears. But the word Alaric was able to pick out most was _Dovakiin, Dovakiin, Dovakiin. _With that, Alaric finally blacked out, under one of the most sacred trees in Skyrim, next to a dragon skeleton, his sword still embedded in its head…


	15. Remember your Safety Helmets!

**A/N: Well I'm back from Pennsylvania. Went to Gettysburg for the 150****th**** anniversary (did I mention I was IN it); then we rolled on down to Philly, which was a beautiful city. So now I'm amped up and ready to get this story on the road. Expect more regular story updates. Oh! I almost forgot. Thanks to ScarletMaiden1 and kelgar04 for the follow and favorite, and thanks to CauldronCalamity for the favorite. Also, thanks to kelgar04 for the review, and glad I could answer your question. **

**Alaric Strong-Heart**

Alaric woke with a pounding headache, which was worsened by the blinding sunlight. He spent a few more seconds laying there groggily, trying to go back to his pleasant sleep. Suddenly he realized the reason he was sore all over. He sprung up from his bed (which he didn't remember) and looked for his sword in the tent he had never seen before. Not finding it, Alaric sighed and walked out of the tent.

He was confronted by an awesome sight. In front of him was an entire camp, stretching as far as the eye could see in all directions. The camp was centered around… was that; it couldn't be… it was his old home. It wasn't in the same shape he had left it, it was surrounded by catwalks and support beams, covered in workers all eagerly assembling a building.

Alaric walked towards the construction, mouth agape. As he neared the build site, he felt a hand laid itself on his shoulder. He turned to see the blonde-grey hair of Balgruuf the Greater, smiling and smelling of alcohol.

"Well my friend, it's about time you waked up, I was about to take this house for myself, ha-ha!" Balgruuf ushered Alaric forward and raised his hand to add affect to the sight. "We decided to repay your dual service with a dual reward."

Alaric was in complete awe at the moment and stuttered out his reply to the Jarl's generosity. "I-I-I-I don't know what to say. You don't know how much this means to me."

Balgruuf simply laughed at the young Nord's humility. "My friend! Do you think this house is your only word for killing a DRAGON?" He put an emphasis on the last word for effect. "No, you see, that milk-drinking bastard Rorik was killed in the attack, leaving me with one less Thane… and conveniently this house is now the largest and you are the most important person in the Thanedom…" Balgruuf kept stopping, hoping Alaric would get the picture. Alaric, meanwhile, was too stupefied to say anything; he just stared at the Jarl… who now apparently was his employer.

Alaric finally pulled himself together enough to respond. "My Jarl," he fell to his knees, "I'm at your service." The Jarl laughed and drew his sword, placing it on Alaric's shoulder.

"Do you, Alaric Strong-Heart, swear fealty and service to Clan Wind-Strider, in peace and war, in harvest and famine, in summer and winter, and in life and death?"

"Aye, I do."

"And do you swear to maintain your Thanedom to the best of your abilities, and to have the utmost devotion to your duty as Thane?"

"I do."

"Then I, Balgruuf Wind-Strider, Jarl of Whiterun and Lord of the Plains, grant you this house, this Thanedom, and rechristen you Alaric Dragon-Slayer, the first of your clan. May your beard grow long and your mug never runs dry!" With that, everyone in distance cheered wildly, and Alaric felt himself lifted by several of the workers and carried around the camp with the workers chanting his name. For the first time in his life, Alaric felt important, like he had a destiny beyond the farm, beyond the Plains, heck, he even felt like he had a destiny that went outside of Skyrim. If only he knew…

**Okay ladies and gents, read and review. Also, for some reason, there's a huge drop off in views after Ch. 3, but it picks up for chapter 11 randomly. Wondering if that's just people getting bored with the story, or if there's something that's causing it... a review or PM telling me what you think would be awesome.**


	16. Men of Knowledge

**Okay, new chapter, new character. Thanks to the kodavv for the review, favorite, and follow. I know the stories slowed down again, so I'm trying to pick it up.**

**Paidi **

The snow crunched under Paidi's feet as he made his way through town, or what was left of it. Now I see why Winterhold has its name, he thought as he readjusted the fur cloak around him. Finally, after walking through the city for several minutes, he finally saw it, the College. It was a massive complex, cut off from the rest of the city by a massive cliff and sitting on a large island of its own. The bridge leading to the College in several places shot out a bright blue light.

He stepped onto the bridge and under a large arch, which shielded him from the brunt of the blizzard. Out of the blizzard stepped a High Elf, clothed in a large fur cloak with mage robes underneath.

"Stop, enter the college at your own risk." The elf said it with machinery that came from saying the same thing over and over.

Paidi smiled at the elf and removed the hood of his cloak. "Believe me, I know the risk of the College." The elf took a step back, and quickly recovered with a small curtsey.

"Archmage Paidi, I had no idea you would be back so soon. Did you find what you were looking for, a library was it?"

Paidi's face scrunched into weeks of frustration. "No, Faralda, the library is still hidden to me. Is everyone here, I need to assemble the Council."

"Yes, Archmage, everyone is here… though Tolfdir and Arniel aren't quite on speaking terms."

Paidi rolled his eyes at the petty argument, and continued inside.

...

Paidi entered the Arcaneum, and looked at all that were assembled. Mirabelle, his right hand woman; Arniel Gane, the Archivist; Tolfdir, Master of Enchanting; Faralda, Master of Destruction; Collete Marence, Master of Restoration; and Urag gro-Shub, the Librarian. The other masters were there, and all stood in unison as Paidi entered the room. He took a seat at the head of the table, covered with books and scrolls.

"Greetings my friends, I've returned from the West, but found no library." At this, Urag grunted in disapproval. "However, I have heard a very… odd rumour while on the road." The room's ears perked at this, "a report from Whiterun says that… well, how to put this… a Dragonborn has appeared." The Nords in the room went wide-eyed, the Bretons looked confused, the Elves even more confused, and Urag went into a thought, trying to recall that phrase.

Tolfdir jumped up (very surprising for a man that age) and looked at everyone in the room with a wild smile. "Archmage, if the Dragonborn has returned… then…. I…. I must go see a friend at once!" The old man said the last part as he was headed out the door, leaving the others baffled.

Paidi quickly took charge of the room again, and began issuing orders. Urag, I want everything we have on this Dragonborn on my desk by next week. Mirabelle, I want you to make sure Tolfdir is accompanied to wherever he is going, he's too valuable to loose. Arniel, I want to take over Tolfdir's classes until his return. The rest of you, get back to business, we have a college to run."

Within seconds, the room was empty; except for Urag who was going from shelf to shelf, rambling to himself. Paidi sighed and went up the flight of steps to his quarters, where his bed was waiting… and, with luck, Mirabelle on that bed.

**Sorry it took so long to get this chapter up, I've been busy for the past three weeks, and never got around to it. But, know that I'm going to start pumping out chapters like crazy now; I'd like to finish this story before ESO comes along.**


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